


Shadow Dancing

by BeautifullyObsessed



Category: Benedict Cumbebatch's - Doctor Strange, Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Stephen Strange - Fandom, Strangebatch - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Magic, Romance, Unrequited Love, disco dancing, that's right I said disco dancing, unrequited for the time being anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-05-18 17:30:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed
Summary: Angsty to begin with, fluff & dancing to follow. Inspired by the song 'Shadow Dancing' by Andy Gibb; I heard it recently, on the 70's channel of Sirius radio, and couldn't get the image out of my head of a disco ball twirling while the song played on, and a very cheeky Stephen Strange insisting Reader take the floor with him--and when she hesitates, Cloak is there to give her an extra push. Let's see where this goes, shall we?





	1. Chapter 1

Frustration.  Uselessness.  Shame.  Each feeling overwhelmed you in turn, as you tried to put the day behind you, while seeking the solace that only sleep might offer--if you got lucky enough _not_ to dream your spectacular failure again and again through the night.  Such nightmares would leave you nowhere to hide, as deep as you might burrow your head into your pillow.  Perhaps it would be best to depart Bleecker Street and return to Kamar-Taj right now, despite the instructions your Sanctum Master had issued. 

The inescapable memories were fresh enough to make you relive the last few minutes of the ferocious melee:  the sounds of battle raging all around you, the air thick with acrid smoke, and the sulphurous stench--which had already overwhelmed several of your fellow Adepts—burning your eyes, as you strained to keep the reptilian marauders at bay long enough to allow the Masters to collapse the wormhole connected to Earth’s core.  Determined, but—frankly—very frightened in the face of this ultimate test of your skills, you had spread your Shields of Seraphim wider than ever before, holding the line while seeking to bridge the gaps left by the fallen.  You bore the growing strain with every ounce of strength in your body, willing yourself to stand firm—until an unpleasant chittering sound invaded your mind, disrupting your concentration, making you momentarily falter from your defensive stance.  A scabrous arm snaked around you, and the creature’s hot breath on your neck was the only warning of its intent; to save yourself from its deadly bite, you were forced to drop your shields, freeing your hands to pry loose the enemy’s grip.

Several of the same hellish monstrosities swarmed through the opening you left in the battle line, as you struggled against the creature attacking you.  At such close quarters, it was impossible for you to employ your mystical defenses, leaving you to fall back on the martial arts training that had been drilled into you in your early days at Kamar-Taj.  You finally managed to cast off the wily beast, sending it plummeting over the side of the precipice, but not before its wicked claws left both of your shoulders lacerated--soaking your tunic in blood.  You felt no pain—probably due to the adrenaline flooding your veins--but the sight of your own blood saturating your clothing, surprised and shocked you enough to make the reality around you darken, reducing your sight to a pinhole, before you fainted dead away.

The battle had peaked, and then turned in favor of Earth’s forces--despite your categorical failure—while you had lain unknowing, upon the ground.  You awoke gradually, feeling like someone had lodged a spike in your brain, the throbbing of your lacerations now more insistent than your own heartbeat.  You had never known such cruel thirst, and you whimpered hopelessly, too weak to even call for help.  At some point, you relapsed into semi-consciousness.

You would never be able to say for sure how much time passed as you lay there unmarked, unattended.  Eventually you saw a figure approach, as you watched dispassionately, not daring to hope you’d finally been found.  His striking face was lit with the firelight that flared in dozens of places amid the dying battle’s heat, and you recognized him with a sort of dread—thinking he would know of how you had let him and your fellow sorcerers down as soon as he looked upon you, as your failure had to be written indelibly upon your face.  There was little breeze, but his trademark Cloak billowed behind him anyway, adding to his mystique, making him appear even more dashing and heroic than usual.  You briefly considered rolling your body over the cliff edge, desperate to hide your shame.  Instead, you closed your eyes and turned your head to the side.

You felt him looming over you, speaking you name with urgent concern; the velvet of his smooth baritone speaking _your_ name, almost like a dream come true.  He crouched beside you, shaking you gently to rouse you from your seeming stupor.  “Adept Y/N, are you awake?”  His skilled fingers sought the pulse in your neck, and your heart raced with the thrill of the contact of his skin with yours—so that you gave yourself away with a little moan at the guilty pleasure of it, even in the midst of such disastrous conditions.

Compelled as much by his very presence, as by his expert, doctor’s touch, you rolled your head and opened your eyes, unable to speak in the face of his genuine alarm on your behalf, accented with his battle-tried beauty.  You sobbed with remorse, seeing the bloody gash on his cheek and his split lips, a bruise already darkening the shelf of his jaw; you took in the multiple rents in his tunic, running across his shoulders and the length of his torso, and tears welled from your eyes.  His injuries were surely _your_ fault, having failed at so a crucial moment, unable to hold the line beside your fellow Adepts, the force of the onslaught of those dark minions proving too much for your meager magic to handle.

Yet there was only concern in Strange’s remarkable eyes, not the scorn or recrimination you so richly deserved.  Ordinarily, having his handsome face this close to yours was only something from your most secret fantasies--but no fantasy had you envisioning it amidst a mystical battle.  Despite everything around you, your heart still fluttered like a schoolgirl’s in the presence of her first crush, testament to your ridiculousness.  You wished you could melt into the quaking ground beneath you, rather than bear his rightful admonishment for your failure.  “Doctor Strange,” you had blubbered, “I’m so sorry, Sir…I…I…”  There existed no words to convey the depth of your ignominy and regret, yet you heard yourself beg him, “Forgive me, please…I swear I tried my best…I’m just…oh god, I’ve never been good enough…”  You squeezed your eyes shut and turned your face away, thinking to conceal your tears of shame.

Strange grunted softly, and you nearly melted for real when he turned your face back to him, his long, elegant fingers warming your skin, reminding you of his vitality and all the quiet longings you harbored in your soul.  “Nonsense, Y/N.  You did well, very well.”  You blinked your eyes open, and your tears ran freely--despite your will to hide them--tracing tracks upon your ash darkened cheeks.  He cocked a brow, studying the pain in your eyes, and offered reassurance—and an absolution you _could not_ truly deserve, “There’s nothing to apologize for, honey.  You were more than enough.  We’ve beaten them back, the wormhole is destroyed, and Earth is safe.”  Sensing your doubt in yourself, Strange offered further comfort, “We succeeded as a team—and your part in our victory was a vital one.”

You laid one arm across your eyes, feeling undeserving of his kindness, wishing you could turn back time and do far better for his sake alone.  Strange paused several breaths, then asked if you could sit up.  When you tried, a harsh wave of dizziness caught you unprepared, and you fell back onto the ground.  “Alright then,” he averred calmly, “There’s still some skirmishing around us, so we need to get you someplace safe.  You’ve stopped bleeding, honey—but I’ll take a closer look at your wounds later.”  He slid an arm beneath you, helping you to sit up, and you heard and felt a whoosh of warm air swirl beside you—and Cloak settled around your shoulders, even as Strange withdrew the support of his arm.  “Cloak’s going to fly you far enough from here to be safe,” he advised you, “Just relax and enjoy the ride, okay?”

You nodded obediently, sinking into the warm embrace of the Cloak of Levitation, wondering how you’d gotten lucky enough for such an honor, whispering your thanks too softly for Strange to hear, as he turned his attention back to more important matters.  Cloak zipped you along, and your concerns and fear dissolved for a time, as you felt the life force animating the garment, and you recognized it bore Strange’s scent—a masculine combination of his body wash and aftershave, of the coffee laced with chicory you’d seen him drink a dozen times, with hints of spearmint from the chewing gum he often favored, and the most delicious, subtle residue of his unique and brilliant magics that had somehow woven itself deep into Cloak’s fibers.  You sighed as Cloak deposited you carefully on a bed of something similar to grass, knowing it would return to the Master it had chosen to serve, leaving you with the fleeting feeling of Cloak’s affection for the same man that had claimed your own heart, without even trying.

The import of the day’s events finally overwhelmed you enough to grant you the oblivion of dreamless sleep, stealing your consciousness at last—but as you went, you numbered Doctor Strange’s words to you, committing them to memory eternal…realizing with astonishment that he had actually called you _honey_.  Not once, but _twice_ —like an odd, unlikely dream, and surely springing from a place of pity and kindness, but like a very sweet and satisfying dream nonetheless.

_(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

**“ _There’s nothing to apologize for, honey._   _You were more than enough._ ”  **

The last words in your mind, as you finally fell asleep—and the first words in your mind by the early light of dawn, heralding your return to the waking world.  _His_ merciful words, spoken for your ears alone.  Hugging your pillow close, you allowed yourself a moment, picturing the unlooked for kindness in his exotic, compelling eyes, and marveling at the surprising endearment.  Though you knew Doctor Strange ( _Stephen_ , your heart whispered daringly, though you’d _never_ have the nerve to call him so to his face) had only spoken that way to soothe you through your physical and emotional pain, you also knew you’d treasure it quietly, come whatever future may for you, in the mystic arts.

The little clock on your nightstand read nearly 6am, meaning you’d slept solidly for about four hours.  An unexpected period of relief from your melancholy, though you could feel the weight of your shame wanting to reassert itself.  You winced as you rolled onto your back, your shoulder wounds still tender, even with the healing magic Doctor Strange had worked upon you the evening before, once the contingent of Earth’s sorcerers had returned to the New York Sanctum.  He could have had one of his more skilled Adepts clean your wounds before he wove the healing charm, but had seen to that task himself, studying you carefully to gage your pain level.  You had held yourself as stoically as you could--needing to hide from him the way your heart sang at even his slightest touch, while watching in astonishment as your broken skin began to mend beneath his extraordinary, scarred hands.  _Scarred but still so very beautiful_ , you thought, wishing you had the courage to tell him so.  As the intensity of your discomfort began to fade, you noted the tremor in his hands, remembering the whispered story passed from Adepts unto Novices, describing how Strange had come to Kamar-Taj seeking relief from his own life-devastating injuries and unrelenting pain.       

“How does that feel,” he’d asked quietly, the fine crinkles at the corners of his eyes fascinating you as you pondered the many details of his handsome face.  “Any better?”

“Oh, yes, Sir…yes, thank you, Sir,” you replied gratefully, shrugging back into the shoulders of your night-robe, and trying to run your hands through the tangle of your hair. 

He smiled at you, perhaps amused by your futile efforts to tidy yourself, and then brushed a wet cloth upon the tip of your nose.  “You missed a spot, there,” he chuckled, the gentle sunshine of his spontaneous grin almost too much for your besotted heart to handle.  “Now,” he instructed you, gathering the soiled bandages for disposal, along with the basin of bloodied water, “You need to rest.  That will be the best thing for _everything_ that ails you.”

Your lower lip began to tremble as you understood that _he_ understood how troubled you were, feeling like a failure and a waste of your months and months of training.  It was inevitable that you voice your concern, “How many, Doctor Strange…how many did we lose in the fight?”

He sighed hard, looking reluctant to give answer.  “Two.”  How grim he sounded, bearing the weight of those deaths personally.  “But it could have been much, much worse.”  He stood up, and you could see now how very tired he was, making you love him even more for all the ways he put the needs of others before his own.  “I want you to remember that, Y/N.  You fought hard, as hard as any of the others—and I don’t want to see you blaming yourself for falling when you were attacked.”  His smile was sad now, and his eyes so sympathetic, “It might very well have been three, honey, if you hadn’t forcefully defended yourself.  So you damn well better not beat yourself up for fighting for your life.”

You looked down at the coverlet spread across your lap, fidgeting with the hem, while trying your best to hide your tears.  He waited through your silence, and as it was clear you were not ready to reply, he added, “Now get some sleep, Adept.  Plenty of bed rest, in fact, until I clear you for even the lightest duties.  Understood?”

You looked up, the urge to see the kindness in his voice reflected upon his face, much too hard to resist.  “Yes, Doctor.  Good…goodnight, Sir.”

Strange nodded a goodnight, favoring you with a wink and the quirk of a smile, and left, closing your door behind him.

But despite his patient instructions, you found it impossible to forgive yourself, and as the days passed—with too much time on your hands—your feelings of uselessness and failure took deeper root.  You hated being alone in your room, where the walls seemed to close in upon you like a tomb, and survivor’s guilt nagged at your conscience.  You felt miserable—and sometimes angry—in a room full of your fellow Adepts; those who’d been part of the battle seemed to carry on now as though nothing darkly extraordinary had happened, leaving you feeling isolated, and questioning your perceptions of your own experience.  Your sleep was restless and not restful in the least; in the darkest hours of the night, you woke soaked in sweat, and had to cram the corner of your pillow in your mouth to keep your cries of terror and remorse from echoing throughout the Sanctum.  You had barely an appetite, and only staved of dehydration by forcing yourself to drink because you knew that you must.   

It wasn’t too long before you realized that you had gone from melancholia to true depression, recognizing the symptoms from the months of a tailspin that had eventually led you to make a pilgrimage to Nepal, in search of enlightenment; it had been enlightenment, or a choice to go into darkness via your own hand--though fortunately you hadn’t the courage at the time, to commit to that final, fatal option.  Cut off now, from the warmth of simple laughter and human interaction, you felt your spirit begin to fade.  And worst of all, no one around you had even seemed to notice.

Well, maybe not _no_ one.  Maybe there was one.  Strange checked on you regularly, even after he pronounced you well enough to return to light duties.  He watched you carefully as you answered his questions about how you were doing, and it always seemed as though he was trying to discern if you were being completely honest about how you were feeling.  Those remarkable eyes of his…like somehow they could see the pain you hid from the others; like they saw and knew and sympathized.  Once out of his presence, though, you’d start to think you were simply projecting what you _wished_ he’d do.  That he would be your own, private hero, and raise you up from the despair you’d sunken into.  Or that he’d share some secret insight with you, to light you a path back to well-being.

One evening you returned to your room, disheartened at the thought of the long, lonely hours of darkness that would be your only companion until morning came, and you found a small, leather-bound book sitting on your bed. Perplexed, you picked it up, wondering who might have left it, and why they had been in your quarters in the first place. By tradition, and by the inherent trust of their order, the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj and the three Sanctums had no locks upon their doors, though individual privacy was sacrosanct enough to allow for only the rare violation–leaving you to wonder,  _why me and why now_?  

You closed your eyes, allowing your Third Eye to see for you, searching for a residual aura of whomever had last held the book in hand. With more concentration than you had focused upon anything since your battle-stand, you managed to get a sensing—the last hands that held this book surely belonged to a strong, brilliant mind; you felt that mind was matched by a compassionate heart; and you caught the very palpable feeling that the owner of those hands possessed a wisdom that had been hard won.  Your soft heart was quick to suggest an answer, but you shook your head in denial–even as you flipped the book open, to discover it was filled with blank, parchment pages.  An inscription was written in a confident, flowing script, just inside the front cover:

_Sometimes, when we find we can’t say out loud the things that hurt the worst--sometimes, it helps a bit to write them down.  To share a sad secret on welcoming pages; to write out our fears & frustrations, and what we think of as our failings.  Sometimes, when we vent the darkness & the sorrow, it helps us to let the light back in.  Helps us understand that we have strength greater than those things which weigh us down.  And sometimes?  Sometimes it helps us to find the courage to speak these things aloud, and to know for certain that we are  **not**  alone in our difficulties._

_So…write it out, my dear.  Write it all, as best you can.  And if you find that eventually you want to talk, I’m more than willing to listen._

_S._

* * *

 

_(to be continued)_


	3. Chapter 3

In the days that followed, as you puzzled out the tangle of emotions knotted up inside your chest, your disappointment in yourself, and the recriminations that came along with it—whilst searching for the words to express it all, and vent it onto the pages of the journal Strange had left for you—you discovered that the darkness that had eclipsed you began to lighten, and your feelings of hopelessness, of purposelessness, had gradually lessened.  As you wrote, you couldn’t help but imagine you were telling _him_ your story—not that you actually _believed_ he’d have the interest or the time to read it, but it helped you to focus on finding the right words, and fashioning them into sentences with the power to convey the depth of your pain and self-doubt.

Granted, the darkness would still overshadow your spirit at times, most often in the quiet of your quarters as you struggled down to sleep, and in the mornings when you woke and remembered…everything.  But improvement by increments was improvement all the same—and you soon added gratitude to the lists of reasons that the Master of the New York Sanctum thoroughly owned your heart.

* * *

Days turned into weeks, and you resumed your studies, along with most of the duties that came along with being an apprenticed Adept of one of the mystic sanctums.  Physically, you bore no sign of your failed trial, but for the palest of scars on your shoulders, which Strange had assured would eventually fade away altogether--so long as you applied the healing unguent that he had given you that first night.  It tingled with satisfying warmth as you rubbed it into your skin—and each time you opened the lid, breathing in the calming scent, allowing yourself the fancy that he had mixed the balm of honey, coconut, marigold and nutmeg himself—you closed your eyes, recalling the gentle way he had spread it on your wounds, his remarkable, scarred hands working a magic upon you, which you had not, could not, ever speak aloud.  _That_ secret was one you would never share in the pages of your journal.     

You knew he kept a watchful eye upon you, but then he’d been a doctor in his old life, and surely such a habit was deeply ingrained.  When your paths crossed (which you wished was every day) he always seemed ready with a wry comment or silly pun, and when he managed to make you laugh, you could almost hear him thinking ‘ _laughter is the best medicine after all_ ’.

A little more than a month after that climatic battle to protect the planet, your name came up in the rotation to accompany Doctor Strange on an other-dimensional mission.  In preparation, he gathered you, and three other Adepts, in the library of the Sanctum, to go over the threat you would be addressing, and the best possible means of eradicating it.  From his description, you understood there was—relatively--very little risk, and bolstered by his confidence, you were certain you were ready. 

“Alright, Adepts,” he advised them, as he concluded the meeting, “This is a fairly routine expedition, one we should be able to complete with our eyes closed.  But I want you all to get plenty of sleep tonight, so you’re fresh and ready to go at dawn.”

You stood up at his dismissal, planning to hit the workout hall in the basement to practice some basic defensive spells, before grabbing something to eat, and then spend your evening studying some texts on healing spells, potions, and elixirs—your recent experience having piqued your interest enough to have you in consider taking up the mystic healing arts as your specialty.

“Y/N,” Strange called, before you reached the library archway, “Might I have a word with you please?”

You turned his way and dipped your head in acknowledgement, concentrating on looking mature, cool and collected—rather than like a callow, love-sick fool that you felt yourself to be, every moment you were in his presence.

Strange pulled out the chair next to his, angling it so that you would be facing him.  Waiting patiently, he gave you that familiar, crooked smile that you had come to adore; he probably meant it to put you at ease, but all it really did was make your face feel suddenly very, very warm.

“Please,” he said, patting the seat, “I was just wondering how you’re doing these days.”  His voice was low, but as rich as ever, velvet to your ears, and your stomach did a little somersault to have him focus on you so entirely.

You gave him a genuine smile, nodding your answer.  “Better…so much better,” then surprised yourself by volunteering even more, “That journal thing—it’s helped to write it out…puts things in perspective…”

“Yes; I had a feeling that might be just the thing to help.”  He patted your hand, and you successfully fought the urge to sigh, praying you could get out of there without giving your ridiculousness away.  “But be honest, Y/N—are you gonna be up for this tomorrow?”

Your tongue felt too thick, and you feared your reply would be unintelligible, but you braved an answer anyway—because _his_ countless acts of bravery made you want to be worthy of him, “I…I think I am, Doctor Strange.”  _I will be, Stephen…for you, I think I can brave just about anything_.

“Excellent,” he grinned, rising to his feet.  He laid a bracing hand on your shoulder, letting it linger there while he studied your face.   “It’s going to be fine, Y/N—you’ve got this, have no doubts.”  He winked at you before he walked away—a wink so unlike the one he’d given you on that dreadful night a month ago, that you let yourself believe for just a little while, it’s warmth went beyond that of a teacher to a student.

* * *

You were up well before dawn, nerves a tingle with anticipation, hopeful and happy at the prospect of serving at Strange’s side.  You ate a quick breakfast, protein heavy to fuel your body; your desire to prove yourself to him more than enough to feed your soul.  You joined the others at the bottom of the grand staircase, awaiting the arrival of the Master.

Not surprisingly, he had a few last minute instructions to give the group before he opened the portal to your destination.  You nodded along with the rest, a spike of adrenaline hitting your system as he conjured the window to another reality; it opened with a whoosh of hot air--and you froze.  The purple sky in the distance was lit with orange flame, the soil and boulders close at hand, blood red.  And suddenly you were back in mid-battle, struggling to keep your Shields aloft; you felt phantom arms seize you, wrapping tighter this time, than you remembered from before.  There was a roaring sound in your ears, which you knew instinctively none of the others heard.

You watched in horror, as the others—eager and unfazed by what lay before them—filed through the portal, and still you couldn’t move.  Strange turned back to you, and you knew he was calling your name, but it seemed as from a great distance, and getting further away.  He turned and shouted something to the Adepts that awaited him, then looked back to you, alarm on your behalf coloring his beautiful face.  The line of consternation between his brows, spoke his irritation, and _still you could not move_.

Perplexed—and probably pissed at you beyond description—he passed his hands in front of the Eye of Agamotto, opening it; it’s green light washed across your pale skin, and in seconds your hero had frozen time—on both sides of the portal.  Except for himself, you were the only thing capable of movement, but your remained locked in place.   He was closing upon you, speaking your name, and the silk of his voice finally got through the thunder in your head.  “What is it, Y/N?” he asked as he stood before you, a brief flicker of panic lighting his exotic eyes, “What’s wrong, honey?”

And for a moment, you thought you might answer; for a moment you let yourself hold onto the fact that he’d called you ‘honey’ once again.  Shaking all over, you opened you mouth to respond—and then you were bending over at the waist, emptying the contents of your stomach at his feet…and passing out as much from shame, as from whatever had paralyzed you to begin with.  

 

( _to be continued_ ) 


	4. Chapter 4

After the figurative—and literal—mess that you’d made of yourself, failing your duty with no excuse but panic pure and simple, you were more than ready to leave the New York Sanctum for good.  And you fully expected Doctor Strange to issue you your walking papers as soon as he returned from the mission that you had come close to screwing up; it would be no less than what you deserved.  But in the weak hope of salvaging at least a shred of dignity, you hoped to beat him to the punch.

You had awoken fuzzy-headed and cotton-mouthed, mid-morning on the day of your debacle, tucked neatly in your bed.  Someone had seen to it that you were cleaned up, and you lay with a cool cloth on your forehead; a rather taciturn Adept was seated at your bedside, engrossed in a text on astral projection.  “I gotta get out of here,” you croaked, starting to sit up while peeling the cloth from your forehead.

Adept Akeno looked up from his study, “Whoa…hold on, Y/N—you’re not going anywhere right now.”

“What…what do you mean?” you demanded, throwing the covers back and making ready to swing your legs over the side of the bed.

Akeno tossed his book on the bottom of the bed and held both hands up in a gesture of placation, “Hey, don’t look at me that way—I’m just the messenger.”  He pulled a small parchment envelope from the folds of his tunic, and extended it towards you, “Master Strange left this for you.”

Your cheeks stung with embarrassment, and the taste of bile rose in the back of your throat, but you remained mute as you accepted the envelope.  You wished yourself as far from here as you possibly could—and failing that, at least some privacy, so that your shame as you read Strange’s message would have no witness.  With shaking hands, you pulled out the note, recognizing in it the same hand that had penned the message in your journal.

“ _Y/N_ ,” it read, “ _Stay.  Please.  Your first impulse is going to be to run.  And I can’t order you to stay until we have the chance to talk—but you should.  Please, trust me in this.  And after--if you decide this isn’t the path for you--you’ll be free to go your way.  I promise you won’t regret waiting the few more hours until we can discuss what happened_.”  Again, he had simply signed it with the initial ‘S’.

You fell back onto your pillow, eyes squeezed shut against the tears you couldn’t avoid, Strange’s note clutched tightly in your hand.  His message had been non-confrontational.  Gentle, without a hint of the rebuke you had expected.  A comfort of sorts, which you felt was completely undeserved.  How could he be so calm, so kind, after your horrendous screw-up?  And really, when it came down to it—reckoning the needs of your heart--how _could_ you leave without gazing into his beautiful eyes one last time; whether it was to see the mercy which fit with the tone of his message—or to accept the dressing-down you so richly deserved?   “Alright,” you groaned, accepting the delay of your plan to run away, “Whatever he wants…”  You rolled onto your side, weak voiced and confused, but complying with the terms Strange had set forth, “I’m staying right here, Akeno.  I promise.  You can go—I just…I just need to be alone.”

You sensed him stand up and retrieve his book, before he left the room without a word.  You curled up and hugged your pillow, beginning to consider how the mess you’d made of your new life seemed to echo the failed life you’d been running from when you first arrived in Kathmandu.

You had come to Kamar-Taj—and to the revelation that magic was real, as were realms and alternate realities far beyond your imagining—later in life than most of its disciples (ironically making you closer in age to the renowned Master of the New York Sanctum than the majority of the novices you trained with).  That astounding discovery had lifted the pall of depression from your heart and mind, and you threw yourself into your magical education, and though you were the eldest of the novices in almost all of your early training courses, you had approached each new lesson with the same vigor and enthusiasm of your younger peers.  For the first time in several years, you had been certain again of your purpose, and hopeful for your future.  Now it seemed you were a failure yet again—as failed in the mystic arts, as you had been in your career, and in love.  And you couldn’t possibly imagine what Strange might have to say to make you feel any differently.

* * *

Mid-day became mid-afternoon soon enough, and there hadn’t been so much as a light rapping on your door.  Restless for resolution, you finally left your room, seeking word if Doctor Strange had yet returned to the Sanctum—though in your shame you avoided your fellow Adepts, heading to the main kitchen to see if any of the retainers on duty could provide that answer.  There, you were relieved to learn that all of the Adepts on mission with him had returned safely, though you were disappointed to find that Strange had immediately departed for Kamar-Taj.  _So much for a getting this over with_ , you realized, _and of course he has far more important issues to deal with than a flighty, foolish Adept like myself_.

That afternoon turned into three more, and still no summons came, as Strange remained absent from the New York Sanctum.  You were fully physically recovered, and so felt obligated to at least carry out your daily duties until you were told otherwise, and you resolved to keep your focus on the here and now rather than on your failings.  Certainly, you would have time enough for that sad preoccupation once you were cast out of the world of the mystic arts.  In the meantime, you decided to see this delay as a vital lesson in patience, and to use the extra time to soak up as much knowledge as you could, before that magical path was permanently closed to you.

The fourth evening out, word spread through the Sanctum that Master Strange had returned; bracing yourself to be called to account for your disastrous failure, you sought the sanctuary of your room to await his judgement.  You ended the night asleep in your duty robes, still waiting for the call that never came—and then woke perplexed, wondering if Strange had actually forgotten you, as he had so many other far more pressing matters to attend to…or if he simply deemed you a lost cause now, not even worth his valuable time in addressing.

Thus, things remained in the days that followed; no word, no summons, no chance for the closure you had been expecting.  Each morning you would screw your courage to the sticking place, vowing to seek him out and just get the audience over with, and a couple of times you even came close to carrying through--until you drew near enough to him to call attention to yourself and an angry flock of butterflies took up residence in your belly, forcing you to beat a quick retreat.  Exasperation became your most constant companion.

And then one evening, while you lingered over supper in the smaller dining hall, a text on medicinal potions propped up by your plate, you looked up to find the man himself leaning in the doorway watching you, with such a quiet, discerning look in his eyes that you briefly forgot to breathe.  “Mind if I join you?”

The smooth, deep sound of his voice sent that familiar thrill running through you, as it always did when he was near.  Strange was dressed casually; stonewashed jeans, and a plain gray tee shirt beneath a comfy looking navy cardigan.  It was a rare thing, seeing him out of his sorcerer kit…an unexpected treat…and nearly enough to coax a ghost of a smile from you for the first time all day.

 _Nearly_.

Instead, you gave a little shrug and a nod, flitting your eyes back to your half-eaten meal, very conscious that he was watching you—while being quite aware that there wasn’t another soul around, possibly on the whole floor.

Strange didn’t settle for your meek silence, trying to draw you out of yourself instead.  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”  You could feel his piercing eyes focus upon you as he awaited your answer, though he remained pure patience.

“No,” you replied softly, reluctantly meeting his gaze.  _Sweet heaven, I could get lost in those eyes,_ you thought, and not for the first time; _they’re so kind and so wise, and it feels like he_ sees _how I’m hurting…and…oh crap, I need to stop imagining such things_.  “No, Sir,” you repeated, and closed the cover of the book you’d been studying, “I was trying to read, but…nothing seems to be sticking at the moment.  My concentration’s been off,” you confessed, “since, well…you know…”  You fell silent at the understanding in his astonishing eyes.

He quirked you that small, lop-sided smile—the one that must’ve been making the girls melt for him since his teens—and gave you a sympathetic nod.  “Yeah, I get that.  The road to the most valuable knowledge is rarely a smooth one,” he admitted.  “But you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself, Y/N.  Sometimes…some days,” he emphasized, “We have to be satisfied with the small victories.  A page or two of lessons, painstakingly learned…a bite or two of dinner, even when our appetite fails us.”  He shrugged, looking sheepish and open and almost… _almost_ like an ordinary man, as he raised his bottle of Blue Moon Horchata Ale to his lips and drew a brief swallow.

 _Almost_ ordinary.  But you would always see him as beyond extraordinary; as a peerless inspiration.  And as unattainable as he was heroic.

Strange set his beer on the table and took the seat opposite you.  You wondered if his keen eyes marked the race of your pulse on the side of your neck, as your heart pounded hard to have him so close.  _Don’t fidget, don’t flail_ , you admonished yourself, _and please, by the mighty Vishanti, don’t_ _give yourself away_ …

“Would you care for one,” he asked kindly, tilting the bottle in his hand slightly.

“No…no, thank you, Master Strange.”  You aimed to sound cavalier, hoping your voice sounded more confident than you felt, “I never really cared much for beer.”   _Though I wouldn’t say no to a taste of it from_ your _lips_ …

“Well then,” he asked, as he let the bottle hover just shy of those fulsome lips, “What _is_ your poison?”

You hadn’t had so much as a drop of alcohol since shortly before you arrived at Kamar-Taj.  And you really hadn’t missed it, first in the excitement of learning that magic actually existed—and then as you hungrily absorbed whatever knowledge you could, finally feeling you had found a true purpose once again.

But this wasn’t just the man that completely owned your heart asking—this was Doctor Stephen Strange, Master of the New York Sanctum, Master of the Mystic Arts.  The hero whom some had even begun to call the Sorcerer Supreme—although you knew he made no claim to that auspicious title himself.  How could you _not_ him give an answer?  “I _used_ to like a nice margarita,” you confessed quietly.

“Excellent.”  Strange set down his bottle and clapped his hands, then rubbed his palms together.  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he grinned, “Cuervo…or Patron?”

“Um…” you blinked in surprise, “…uh…Patron…I suppose…if…if you insist…”

“Of course, I do,” he winked, looking more a master of mischief than of the mystic arts, “As both your superior and as a doctor, I’m recommending that you just…relax, for a while.  Set aside what’s troubling you, set aside all the doubts preying on your mind…and just breathe for a few hours.”  You watched in fascination as his beautiful, damaged hands deftly wove the spell, causing a margarita to materialize next to your plate.  “Breathe. Drink. Relax.”  He picked up his bottle and tipped it toward you in a sort of toast, smiling confidently, “And repeat, as necessary.”


	5. Chapter 5

The margarita turned out the be the best you’d ever tasted, wickedly smooth, with an ideal balance between tart and sweet, and perfectly salted.  Its warmth spread quickly through your veins, leaving you more relaxed than you’d felt in nearly a dozen weeks—while making you far more comfortable than you’d ever been in the presence of the man you’d been hopelessly crushing upon.  You found it much easier to meet his eyes now, brave enough to hold his gaze, your usual bashfulness in his presence gradually evaporating with each sip from your glass. 

But you realized it wasn’t just the drink working that bit of magic for you—for his casual manner, and the ease he brought to your conversation, made you feel comfortable enough to confide in him things you had not spoken aloud in all the months of your training at Kamar-Taj and of your service in the New York Sanctum.  Under his gentle questioning—as he conjured a second margarita for you, and another bottle of beer for himself—you spoke of those trials in your life that had led to your tailspin and depression, eventually driving you to Nepal in search of enlightenment as an alternative to giving into that despair.

Though he revealed little of himself to begin with--handily turning your chat away from disclosing any but the most cursory details of his life before Kamar-Taj—it was enough for you to realize he truly empathized with your experiences, thus explaining why he had been so patient with you and your failings.  Why he had been so keen to get you to forgive yourself and see past those crippling mistakes.  And why he remained insistent that you not give up just yet.

Sometime between your second and third margarita, you found yourself bold enough to finally ask him why he had never sent for you as his note had promised.  His eyes widened at the question, though he took time enough to drain his bottle before answering, “When I was a kid—I had to be ten or eleven--I badgered my parents into letting me join the same Boy Scout troup as a bunch of my friends.  My dad wasn’t too keen on it, figured it would interfere with some of my weekly chores on our farm…”

You smiled, trying to picture the brilliant, urbane man across the table from you milking cows and mucking out horse stalls—you _never_ would have guessed he had such a history.

Strange t’sked, grinning wryly, “Yup—I know…I don’t look the farmer type at all.  But, nevertheless…”  He snapped his fingers, and full bottle replaced his empty, “So…my mom was pretty insistent, and it was one of the rare times she got my father to give in.”  He drew a deep sigh, seeming to relish the memory a moment, and then continued, “But it didn’t turn out to be quite what I expected.  And to be honest, after years of being the best at everything I put my mind to, it was a shock to discover that this time I _wasn’t_.”

Like quicksilver, it dawned on you where his story was leading, “You…you wanted to quit, didn’t you?”

“Damn right I did,” he chuckled, “My dad, he was…he was a real hard ass…you know what I mean?”  You nodded, engrossed in his surprising story, “So, of course I went to my mom…”

“But she wouldn’t let you,” you murmured.

“She absolutely would not,” he averred, “She insisted that I had to make the best of it…that I had to try even harder…”  Strange took a long pull of his beer, then let the bottle hover near his lips, so that your eyes lingered briefly upon their fulsomeness as he continued, “So that’s exactly what I did.  Not because I _wanted_ to, but because I _had_ to.”

“Right.”  You looked down at your nearly empty margarita glass, quickly connecting the dots, “I’m not going anywhere, anytime soon, am I?”

“Well now, Y/N, I’d say that’s entirely up to you.”  Strange leaned forward, and you found your eyes drawn to his, in need of his comforting wisdom.  “I was a kid, with a life lesson to learn.  If she had let me quit then, I’d always look back on my time in Scouts as a failure.  Making me stay until I received my first rank was _exactly_ what I needed to eventually be able to walk away seeing my time in Scouts as a positive experience.”

You drew a deep, uncertain sigh.  “It sounds so simple when you put it that way, Doctor Strange…”

“Stephen,” he correctly you gently, “It’s just Stephen, at the moment.  We’re both off duty right now, so I don’t think we need to be so formal, do you?”

“Um…” You could feel color rush into your cheeks and prayed that the light in the room was low enough for him not to notice, “Sure…I, um…I’d like that…Stephen.”  Speaking his given name, with his permission no less, was a secret thrill you had never anticipated.  It made you feel a bit braver—and weak inside too, with impossible wishes for further familiarities.  “You make is sound so simple, Stephen.  I wish I could believe it was just that easy…”

“It can be, Y/N.  Don’t overthink it; just think of these experiences as something to learn from, rather than be ashamed of.  Don’t run from them, embrace them and let them lead you to a greater understanding of what you _are_ capable of.”  He smiled at you so softly, so mercifully, that you felt his faith in you far surpassed any you had ever felt for yourself.

“You really think I should stay?  That I can be…be an asset to the work you do here?”

“Without a doubt, honey,” he declared, “I see a helluva lot of potential in you.  It would be our loss if you decided to quit.”  He cupped his bottle in both palms, inadvertently drawing your attention to his scarred hands.  Tonight, the tremors were subtle, but you had seen them shake quite badly in the past, and a score of times you had been near enough to see him wince in pain.  Few knew the full story behind those painful looking scars; tales were shared in hushed tones in the quiet places of Kamar-Taj, rumors and whispers and half-truths, but instinctively you knew they couldn’t come close to the truest explanation. 

Yet despite what might cripple an ordinary man, you knew those wounds did not prevent Strange from his work, and you could only find an indescribable beauty in those dire looking weals.  You’d experienced the soothing, healing touch of his magnificent, damaged hands, enough to mark your heart as forever his—while knowing that by force of his will and dedication alone, those same hands could work mystic miracles, defending life on Earth and throughout the multi-verse from the darkest forces imaginable, no matter the pain Strange might endure.  It made you want to follow his example; it made you want to do him proud.  He waited through your silence, and then gently told you, “Only _you_ can decide if quitting is your best choice.  But if you do, I promise you that the doors of this Sanctum and Kamar-Taj will _always_ be open to you.”

Your chest flooded with a mix of relief and gratitude, and you had to look away, to keep him from seeing you cry yet again.  Until that moment, you hadn’t truly understood how very much you _didn’t_ want to leave this new life behind.

Strange gave you several moments to master the emotions that threatened to overwhelm you, while you accepted the generosity of his offer.  You palmed the tears from your cheeks before seeking his eyes again, searching for the words to convey the true depth of your gratitude and your renewed resolve.  The sudden, rhythmic beat of conga drums broke the silence (and your concentration) before you had the chance to speak, joined swiftly by the iconic sound of a 70’s era synthesizer and the pulsing bass of pure discotheque. It seemed to be coming from down the hall—and was surprisingly familiar.

“That’s, um…” you grinned, incredulous at the baffling interruption, “…that’s the…”

“Bee Gees…” Strange finished with you, looking both puzzled and amused.  He blinked several times and looked behind him, trying to assess the source of the music.  “I think it’s coming from the kitchen,” he guessed, “Probably one of the kitchen staff tidying up…or maybe doing some breakfast prep for tomorrow…”   

The falsetto that rang out next confirmed the title for you, while stirring a slew of happy childhood memories.  “ _My baby moves at midnight…goes right on till the dawn…_ ” it sang, “ _My woman takes me higher…my woman keeps me warm…_ ”

Strange was nodding in recognition as well. “ _You Should Be Dancing_ ,” he gave a low whistle, “Classic.”

“You know this one?”

“Oh, yeah.  From the album _Children of the World_ , 1976.  Charted number one on the Billboard Hot 100 _and_ the Hot Dance Club Play Chart,” he reeled off confidently, “Hit number four on the Billboard Soul chart as well.”  He gave a satisfied shrug, “A bit before my time—but how do _you_ know it?”

With any other man, you would have asked how he happened to possess such arcane knowledge—yet with Stephen Strange it seemed just another facet of his spectacularly unique personality.  And though it felt like your toothy grin must look ridiculous, you couldn’t dim your smile. “ _Saturday Night Fever_ was one of my mom’s favorite movies!  She burned through at least two copies of the videotape by the time I was twelve,” you laughed, “So I could probably sing you the entire soundtrack and recite at least half of the dialogue.”

“ _…you should be dancing, yeah…dancing, yeah…_ ”  Barry Gibb warbled in the background, and Strange was now bobbing his head in time with the beat, his eyes flashing with mischief, as he mouthed along with the words,  

_“She's juicy and she's trouble_

_She gets it to me good_

_My woman gives me power_

_Goes right down to my blood_

 

_What you doin' on your back, on your back, aah?_

_What you doin' on your back, on your back, aah?_

_You should be dancing, yeah…_

_Dancing, yeah…”_

Somehow, in the course of a dozen lines of lyrics, the formidable Master of the New York Sanctum, Wielder of the Eye of Agamotto, had transmuted—not diminished in the least—just transmuted enough for you to see him as much as a flesh and blood man as a hero.  He winked at you as he stood up, singing out loud in a baritone that rang strong and true, “You should be dancing, yeahhhhhhhh…dancing, yeahhhhhhhh…” 

He rocked his head back and forth with the disco rhythm, his handsome face scrunched comically…endearingly…pricelessly, as he let the music fill him, and then nodded at you while he spread his hands wide.  “C’mon,Y/N,” he urged you, in that smooth, deep voice that was impossible to resist, “They’re playing our song—and it’s just…well…it’s just _too_ damn good to waste!” 

And somehow you weren’t surprised—nor did you hesitate—when he held his hand across the table to you, prompting you to rise to your feet and place your hand in his, as you nodded a very willing ‘yes’ to the question that burned in his remarkable eyes…

_(to be continued)_


End file.
